Layered grief is the emotional experience of enduring multiple losses in a short period, or experiencing new losses before fully processing previous ones.
My auntie Debbie died less than 14 months after my mom, and I realize I haven’t spent time fully processing my loss. I sometimes think I was so deeply sad from losing my mom, that I couldn’t possibly get any sadder from losing my aunt, too. But I am.
At the time, when I learned of my aunt’s stage 4 pancreatic cancer, I wasn’t fooled by hope the same way I was for my mom. I understood that it was very bad, and that I’d be saying goodbye soon. In the moment, I was going through the motions. I called her every few days on FaceTime. I went to visit her an hour away as often as I could manage in the less-than-2-months from her diagnosis to death.
It was hard to watch Auntie Debbie’s alertness and cognition deteriorate so quickly. She was always very loud, very chipper, and very outspoken. When she was unwell, she became soft toned. She was also never one to complain, not even through her previous experience with breast cancer. But she was really struggling, and I knew it from the way she shared her pain and discomfort. It is so hard to hear that someone you love so dearly is in that kind of pain, constantly on morphine to help it settle.
I have so many amazing memories of my Auntie Debbie. They date back to my early childhood, spending time at her house with my uncle and cousin. I used to talk to her on MSN and we always joked about her spelling because it wasn’t her strength. When she spelled something wrong, I’d correct her and she’d write it out correctly 3 times. She loved it and we always had a good laugh about it.
Auntie Debbie lived over an hour away but she came to visit often while my grandma was still alive, and she was a huge support system for me when she passed - as they were best friends. I could always count on a good “grandma memory” from her when I saw her. When I got older, Auntie Debbie and Uncle Hal always spent at least one weekend each summer at our houseboat. And I spent one year living with them while I was doing my post graduate degree in the city she lived in. Her spare bedroom would forever be known as “Amanda’s room” when we talked, which I loved. After moving out, whenever I talked to her, she’d reminisce about the time we lived together. She’d comment about how much she appreciated the time we had together, and she’d share her memories of listening to my best friend and I giggle late into the night when she slept over to avoid driving home in a snowstorm.
Every time I posted on social media, I could count on a “like” on every single picture from Auntie Debbie. She never just liked the whole album, she went in and liked every photo. And she’d comment on each one to, always with a “love auntie Debbie” at the end.
Auntie Debbie shared her love fiercely and freely. She always ended her calls with an enthusiastic (and loud) “Love you!” In fact, all my friends called her “Auntie” too, and she told them she loved them often, too!
At the end, I was called by one of my cousins to come fast to see Auntie Debbie one last time. I was on my way there when we got the news that we didn’t make it. In my own selfish way, I am grateful. I was present when my mom died and I don’t think I was emotionally able to be there again when another woman I loved so dearly died. However, not being there to actually witness it makes it easier to pretend that what happened isn't real. Since Auntie Debbie lived so far away, and I don't pass by her house for normal, everyday activities, it is easier in my head to pretend that she's still there, and I just haven't seen her in awhile.
But it's not the case. It is true. Auntie Debbie died. Her three year death anniversary just passed on the weekend. I spent time remembering her, missing her, and wishing things were different.
My daughter, Charlee, was given the middle name Ann - to be named in honour of my mom, Lee Ann. It wasn't chosen because Auntie Debbie's middle name is also Ann, but I've come to really love that she shares that piece with both of them.
I miss you, Auntie Debbie. Love you!!
Are there any parts of your grief that might still be waiting for your attention?
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